The Brown Tarp

I feel like that brown tarp in my backyard. It wants to flap and spin and dance in the wind, but it’s tied down so no one can get hurt. And so am I. I feel stuck in invisible ropes. I don’t know why we can’t do what we want. The tarp wouldn’t hurt anyone by flying away. It would just float off. And not putting your dishes in the sink doesn’t hurt anyone either.

What if they just let me go? Just this once. I promise I won’t be a bad girl again. I never meant to be rotten anyway. I don’t even know what being “rotten” really is. But I know that’s what my parents like to say when I forget to take out the trash. I can’t stay stuck like that tarp. I have too many things to do. If they’d just let me out of this room, I could be free. I could run, jump, and maybe even fly. I’ve always wanted to fly.

What if I grabbed the corners of the tarp and we took off together? We’d drift so high into the sky and look down at everyone. The houses would look like little boxes. The trees would look like sticks. The cars would look like ants after you kick their piles. We’d float over my school and see that mean old cafeteria lady, Ms. Henderson. I would never get in trouble again. I would be free.

Hey, there’s Gina watering her yard. She always wears a big hat outside. Look! That’s Phillip taking out his trash. He orders a lot of pizza. Can you guys see us up here?

Then we’d laugh and laugh until we wet ourselves. Who knows—maybe Gina and Phillip could use a light drizzle. Maybe they’re hot and need to cool down. That would be funny. I bet they’d look up and wave at me.

Imagine all the places we could go. The park with the yellow slide where I lost my first tooth. A mountain with snow on top. Spain. I’ve always wanted to go to Spain. I don’t really know where it is, but I love their rice. And nobody would know me there, so I’d never have to follow rules again. I could just be myself. Far, far away from here.

I get out of bed and rest my chin on the windowsill. My knee lands on a Lego. Oof. I hate those things. I don’t even like Legos, but Grandpa keeps buying them for me. They hurt when you step on them. If you lose one piece, you can’t finish the set. And they always get stuck in places I can’t reach.

I’m in timeout again. I’m always in timeout. Talking back and interrupting are the things my parents hate most. They love rules. Maybe even more than me. They make so many I can’t even count them.

Don’t do this.

Don’t run in the house.

Put your shoes away.

I don’t even remember what rule I broke this time. Now I’m stuck in my room again. Being stuck in my room is the worst. Girls are supposed to run and laugh and play. No one wants me to have any fun. Maybe the tarp feels the same about its parents. Maybe the tarp feels like I do. Maybe it wants to run and play and dance, too. I bet it’s tired of waiting. I bet it wants to fly away with me.

The tarp is dancing beautifully, teasing me to come play. It’s flapping and tugging at the ropes. I want to fly too, but I have to do this first. My window can open, but it’s tricky. This used to be my older sister’s room, and she broke it sneaking boys in. Gross. I don’t even know why she likes them. They wear too much cologne and make the room smell like flowers. They don’t even like me, and somehow they make my sister not like me either.

Oh—I know! I can grab my scissors and free the tarp. I quietly open my drawer and rummage until I find my pink glitter scissors. They’re my favorite. No one cuts better than me with those. I’ll cut the ropes and then it’ll be free.

I mean—we’ll be free.

I open the window just a little. I have to be careful.

Squuuuuueeeeeeak.

I freeze and listen to make sure my sister isn’t coming. She’s in charge right now. Phew. No one. She must be with one of those boys.

I drop to the ground. Ooof.

“I’m almost there, tarp,” I whisper as I army-crawl across the flower bed. “As long as Cowboy doesn’t give me away.” Cowboy is my dog. He’s small and loves to bark. He loves barking more than food. He can bark so loud he could wake up the whole street.

The backyard feels different now. The grass seems taller, like it grew while I was asleep. The stone path I like to hop across feels a million miles away. The fence looks so…see-through. Surely Phillip is busy throwing away another pizza box and won’t see me.

I reach the tarp and start sawing at the ropes, keeping one eye on my sister’s window. Nothing. Good. This is taking forever. I’m going to get caught. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Just one more cut and I can fly away. I’ve never been this excited.

One side is free. Then another. One more, and I’ll grab the corners and we’ll go to Spain. I’ll hold on tight so the tarp doesn’t leave without me. I picture Spain—bright colors, delicious rice, no rules.

I’m on the last rope now. My hair falls in my face. I bite my lip and focus. My hands shake a little, but I’m almost done.

“This is it, tarp,” I whisper. “We’re almost out of here.”

Then it happens.

A huge gust of wind comes, and the tarp rips free. It spins and twists, flying away—so far away, toward the mountain. Gone. Free.

I stay where I am.

I’m scared. And jealous. The tarp is flying off, free to do whatever it wants. And even though I’m outside, I still feel stuck—full of rules and timeouts and parents who love them.

I start crying. I wanted to leave. I wanted to be free—and it left without me. The tarp is the one flying now. I hope it’s happy, up there in the wind, away from all the rules.

Maybe I’ll ask for rice tonight.